


Old Soul

by casey270



Category: Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Gen, birthday angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casey270/pseuds/casey270
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy takes stock on the night before his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written on the eve of Tommy's birthday. Very short, and not much of a point, but it's actually a prequel to a longer fic that I want to write.

He has an old soul. 

Tommy’s heard that shit for as long as he can remember, but he still has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. He knows he feels older than all hell some days, especially days like today. Or to be more exact, nights like tonight. 

It’s the eve of his birthday. The night before another year gets marked off against the limited number that he has allotted to him. The quiet hours before the dawn of the actual day always have a morbid feeling. At least for him. Maybe it’s because his own mortality comes into crystal focus on this night.

He knows there’s no rational reason for him to feel older tonight than he did last night. There’s even less of a reason for him to feel older now than he will tomorrow or next week or even next month, but he does. 

It happens the same way, year after year. He tries not to analyze it too much, but after all this time, even he can’t ignore the pattern. He starts living in a cloud of funk two or three weeks before his birthday. Every day that passes brings him more anxiety and less understanding. 

It’s not like he’s afraid of getting older. He has visions of himself as a little, old man, sitting in his rocker, still playing his guitar. His fingers might not be so nimble then, but the hell with that. As long as he can still tell a story or paint a picture with his music, he’ll count himself as one of the lucky ones. 

What he _is_ afraid of is losing what he’s got. He’s not talking about looks, even though that’s where he looks to check for signs of aging. No, he’s afraid of getting old and sick, of not being able to take care of himself. He doesn’t want to end up being a burden or not knowing himself anymore.

Most of all, he’s afraid that he’ll lose his music, and that would be hell.

So he always spends the night before his birthday by himself, thinking about what another year’s passing means and taking stock. He sees all the fine, new wrinkles coming in around his eyes. He stands sideways in front of his mirror and pats his gut, positive that it’s just a little bigger than it was during the day. He runs his fingers through his hair, convincing himself that it’s not as thick as it was a week ago. He lets his mind focus on the chord changes of that new piece of music he’s been working on, and gets mad as fuck at himself when he completely screws up a whole eight bar section. 

Sometimes, when it’s so quiet and still like this, he wonders what it would be like to not have to worry about this shit, what it would be like to be forever young.


End file.
